Once Upon a Time in Post Apocalyptia
by PurplePlover
Summary: There was a girl who went on a journey to find her father. Misadventures and youthful wisdom abound. CharonLW
1. Once Upon a Time in the Post Apocalypse

Hello all! One day I decided: I'm bored, let's write something. So I did. Due to my spontaneity, this story is more word barf than edited work, so please don't expect much! I haven't written in ages - I'm sure my ability to write has rusted to the point of incomprehensible ramblings. To clarify the story - this will be the adventures of the Lone Wanderer, although I haven't decided whether to simply retell the main storyline or go on another track. I'd also prefer to keep her nameless, simply because it feels weird to give the Lone Wanderer a name.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Fallout 3, the good people of Bethesda do.

**Once Upon a Time In the Post-Apocalypse**

When I took my first look out to the wastelands, I thought: "beautiful".

Well, it was actually "oh my god, I'm blind!" But the experience was more or less the same. It was my first time seeing the _outside_. It was this great big thing I had read about in books, like a fairy tale come to life - and I was the heroine. I was a kid who dreamt about swashbuckling adventures. With no roof, no overseer, nothing to contain my excitement, I reverted into that kid.

I expected, under the complete hysteria of having been run out of the only home I knew for the past 19 years of my life, that things would start looking up. Sure the outside was a post-apocalyptic wasteland that had my Geiger counter singing worse than I did in the shower, my dad had pulled a disappearing act more magical than Andy could ever hope to mimic, and I no longer had a home, but for once in my short life, I felt completely _free_. It was no surprise that I eagerly came across Megaton (a town with enough common sense to build around a bomb) and found my first adventure in deactivating a pesky nuclear warhead. Let me tell you, it was a mite trickier than fixing a broken toaster and I can only say thank god for mentats.

I won a house out of that deal, fully equipped with a robot butler. Needless to say, I was feeling more than a little full of myself. The world had tossed an atomic bomb at me and I had batted a home run- more than I ever accomplished on the Vault 101 baseball team. I was ready to take on the world. I was going to hunt down my father and yell at him for leaving me behind when I was clearly a capable young adult.

Being the amazing heroine I expected to be, the rest, I should say, was history.

...

Except I'd be lying. My first impressions of the Capital Wasteland were sadly misconstrued. I found that the waste could become a metaphorical hell on earth. And it gets really hot too. I swear, on some days I could slap a cut of brahmin on the road and have it well done. I'd eat it too - irradiation is a terrific germ-killer...

Sorry, I'm getting off track. Now let's see... where's a good place to begin? You probably don't want to hear my life story, no matter how much free time you have.

I was sucker punched into reality during Project Purity. Let me say I had one hell of a wild ride falling off my high pedestal.

Wait. Do over. I'm getting ahead of myself. But this _is _a story of a heroine, so why not begin somewhere exciting?

I guess the first time I killed a man is a good place to start. What's with that look? Don't think I could do it? You've been out here longer than I have. First rule of survival is to trust no one; hell, you can't even trust yourself. Pain in the ass I was, since the day I popped of my mother's womb.

Digressing again. Sorry. Anyways, the time I first killed someone, less than a week had slipped by since my dad left. I was fresh out of the vault and utterly clueless.

I stared up at the grimy building proclaiming to be the Super Duper Mart. I wondered why it was so super, since I was dubious on its having any cheap, nutritious deals inside. Not anymore. But I had to see if there were any "salvageable goodies", as Moira said, and I needed the money. 100 caps to find out where my father had wandered off to. Moriarty _did _offer me a job to get the caps, but I trusted the snake as far as I could throw him - and believe me when I say I couldn't lift the guy.

I pushed one of the mart doors open and peeked inside. The place was just as decrepit as it looked - except for some eerie hints of life. There were the hastily constructed walkways atop of the aisles, for one, and then there were the headless, limbless bodies being used for home decorating. I gagged and forced myself to keep going. It had taken me a few frustrating hours to find this place and I really needed the money (famous last words if any were ever said).

I ducked low behind a counter and crawled down an aisle, feeling more than a little sneaking suspicion that I wasn't alone. A minute later I tripped over a grocery cart and landed on my rear. More important than the pain to my poor backside was the confirmation of my suspicions. A wild looking man wielding a knife popped out of nowhere and hummed "found you" like we were playing a game of hide and seek. I nearly screamed, but self-preservation kicked in and I shut myself up by biting the inside of my cheek - harder than I should have. I tasted blood and wondered if it was the last thing I would ever taste, but somehow the 10mm pistol that Amata gave me made its way to my hands.

"Now mister, I have a gun and you have a kitchen knife. Let's step back and assess the situation diplomatically." I reasoned earnestly, as best I could with swelling inner cheek. I was still in the "vault mode" of mind and assumed law and order and plain human reason still existed. It was the first and last time I attempted diplomatic negotiations with raiders.

The man apparently doubted my aim because he gave a nasty, yellow-toothed grin that said "I'm not listening" before lunging at me. Now, if there's anything you don't want to do, it's call me names (I'm looking at you, Butch), and doubt my aim. I was short and weak and could barely run a mile without feeling asphyxiated, but I spent years shooting my old BB gun when I wasn't pitching for Vault 101's baseball team.

I pulled the trigger and the raider fell dead at my feet. I let out a shaky laugh, felt glad I was alive, and promptly threw up on my shoes. I made it out of the Super Duper Mart without another hitch and returned to Megaton to collect my caps and dad's whereabouts.

I was admittedly frightened yet reassured – I could survive out here; I killed a man who had wanted to kill me and earned a few caps. I was a hero who disarmed Megaton's bomb and saved countless lives. I lived to fight another day, I was at the top of the food chain, etcetera. I felt damn near invincible.

I was tired and nauseous nonetheless. I dragged myself into bed and was out like a light.


	2. And That's How We Met

I can't help but feel I'm writing too little and moving along too fast. Please tell me how I can improve!

**And That's How We Met**

I wanted a bath when I woke up, but I suspected that such a blatant waste of good water would have Megaton's citizens strapping me to a pole and starting a fire under me. I chose instead to brush my hair and plait it absentmindedly. My hair was the one thing I was excessively proud of: long, thick, and all but silky smooth through your fingers. I grew it out when I was twelve and Butch said I looked like a boy - I punched him in the nose and ran away crying.

Finishing up my self indulgence, I set my pip-boy's destination to the GNR building. It was a ways away, but that didn't deter me the slightest. It was a pebble throw into my plans - nothing to worry about now that I had a good night's sleep.

Okay, so I groaned a little. My legs were sore from the trek to the Super Duper Mart; Vault 101 wasn't known for its athletically gifted denizens.

But before I left, I decided to visit Moriarty's Saloon, a little because I was stalling and a bit because I really wanted to visit the saloon.

The place smelled like smoke and the musty leftover smell of questionable activities. As always.

"Hey Gob." I smiled and sat up on a stool. "Gimme a stimpak or two. I need 'em for a trip."

"Leaving so soon?" The ghoul asked in his raspy voice, sounding disappointed. He was a sweet guy, had more heart in his decaying chest than my good ol' pal Butch and his Tunnel Snakes had combined. Honestly, when I first met him, I had been terrified. The only reason I didn't stop, point, and run away screaming bloody murder was the fact that I was still in shock from my Great Vault Escape. He looked like the result of an unholy union between a man and Vault 101's Meatloaf Mondays. I still winced when I stared Gob in the face, but at least I felt guilty about it.

"Sorry Gob. That snake finally spilled where dad is. I don't want to miss him." I shrugged apologetically. Gob took on the look of what I call "a sad zombie puppy". I resolved to compromise, if simply to make myself feel better. "How about this. Since I'll be going out, if I ever find the Underworld I'll tell Carol you said hi. Maybe bring back a letter." Gob brightened instantly and handed me a couple of stimpacks.

"You would do that for me?"

I couldn't help grinning. "Why wouldn't I? You're going out on a limb giving me these discounts." I shared a conspiratorial look with the ghoul and was off, waving goodbye to Nova and blowing a raspberry at Moriarty's back.

* * *

The outside was dusty and dry, as always. I could feel my lips cracking after half an hour and wished water wasn't so sparse. I wished for a lot of things, actually. When you weren't fighting (or in my case, running) for your life, the wasteland was a dull place. It gave you time to think, a freedom that could drive a person mad. I began humming the sparse amount of songs I heard from the vault jukebox - before Joe Palmer died and no one else bothered to fix the stupid thing. Then I played a game of I Spy with myself until I had nothing else to spy except more rocks and dirt and the occasional giant mutated bloatfly. I liked using the bat I took from the vault to see how far I could hit the buggers. There was no need to waste ammo. It passed the time and prevented me from thinking about important matters. I named the sport: Bat the Bloatfly.

I reached the metro quickly enough. It was noon so I could see the darkness of the station compared to the sunny post-apocalyptic day. Of course I entered the metro – I had no other choice, though I was suspicious that the "things that go bump in the night" may in fact have made their homes in this dark, decrepit underground passage.

Again my intuition proved irritatingly correct. I cursed my sixth sense as I spotted the first feral ghoul wandering in a dark corner of the station. Its red eyes glowed in the dark and it hissed and snuffled and growled like some deformed zombie dog. Sneaking past the ferals was like living through one of my childhood nightmares, but one way or another I managed to make it through the metro without confrontation. There _was_ one eventful encounter when I hacked a computer (the GOAT had correctly designated me a future pip-boy programmer) and turned on the gas. One shot was enough to light up all those feral ghouls like Christmas trees. I still was repulsed by the thought of killing humans, but these things gave me a sick sort of satisfaction as I watched them burst into flames.

By the time I saw light at the end of the tunnel, my palms were sweaty, my heart threatened to pop like a red balloon, and I couldn't have felt happier unless my dad decided to jump out and say "Surprise, it was all a joke! Funny, wasn't it?"

But my happiness lasted as long as my apparent well-being. In front of me materialized the _hugest_, _ugliest_ sonofabitch I have ever laid eyes on (since the feral ghouls anyways). When it was born its mother was probably arrested for crimes against humanity. Nothing in the world could surpass the peril I felt – the utter danger and striking despair of having to fight the Great Green Menace with a 10mm gun and a baseball bat… and then three more ran out the door.

Fortunately providence decided I should die some other day in some other way than being torn apart by giant green men. Personally - if there is an almighty being out there - I would prefer to go peacefully in my sleep at a ripe old age, with 2.5 kids and Prince Charming for a husband who would save me from my wicked step-mother and sweep me off my feet to some far off kingdom.

Except my mom's dead and I'm referencing a fairy tale predating long before the nuclear war, but let's ignore those tiny, tiny facts.

After lootin— scavenging everything off of the dead Uglies (as the Brotherhood of Steel so affectionately nicknamed), nuking a Super Mutant Behemoth, I was finally face to face with the voice of Galaxy News Radio: Three Dog. His name was a grammatical nightmare but I suppose we all have our flaws.

"You want me to get you a satellite dish in an abandoned museum where I'm sure ungodly creatures are waiting to jump me and eat me and do hideous things to my corpse." I deadpanned.

"Well it sure won't be a walk in the park." Three Dog stated, looking serious. Serious was bad. Serious meant he wasn't messing around. Serious meant I actually had to do work.

"Couldn't you just tell me where my dad went?" I asked somewhat hopefully.

Three Dog gave me an apologetic shrug but shook his head. "Sorry kid. You gotta contribute to the Good Fight."

"Fuck me." I sighed. "Fine, I know how it works out here. If I live, I'll install your god damn dish but I expect to have a teary reunion with my dad or I want my money back."

* * *

I ended up back in the metro with those ghouls who appeared all but blasphemous abominations against God. I actually bludgeoned one to death (screaming bloody murder while doing so) because I ran out of ammo and hadn't had the sense to plan things through. I usually sold spare equipment because I didn't like carrying all that junk. Call me lazy but I'm not built for heavy labor - calluses bother me and I'm ignorant to the meaning of lactic acid build up.

I was growing increasingly indifferent to my instincts to flee. Perhaps undergoing hours of terrifying new experiences exhausted my right mind, because I found I was able to make it through the metro in a wake of dead feral ghouls and a calmness in my stomach. It was dark outside. I stepped into the white light of the moon and thought it looked pretty.

I was distracted. Which is why I didn't see the nail board coming.

I noticed the pain first, then the difficulty to run in a straight line. It was like the time I got into the vault's liquor storehouse with Amata (to this day I have not discovered why she agreed to the plan). I found out the hard way that I had no constitution for the stuff and by the time I finished a bottle I was walking into walls and seeing doubles. Dad lectured me on the hazards of alcohol and took my books away for a week.

I was seeing triples and quadruples of a Super Mutant until blood drew a warm red curtain over my left eye. My ears rung and I wondered distantly if it were an angel's bell. I stumbled as I ran and tried to figure out my escape plan. It went like this: run damn you!

It must have been a sight, a nineteen-year-old girl in modified vault armor, flailing her arms as she ran in circles with a Super Mutant at her heels. Then there were gunshots and a roar of pain. The Super Mutant fell on its face and didn't get up.

I didn't get up either, until I woke up to the smell of musk and antiseptic. "Dad?" I slurred, my mouth full of cotton. The room smelled like a doctor's room; it smelled like dad.

"Dr. Barrows." A hoarse voice corrected.

"Smoking's bad for you." I said, wondering if dad had lung cancer. "I missed you, dad."

"You sustained blunt trauma to the head and needed five stitches. You may suffer some disorientation, but you slept off the worst of it."

"Oh." My eyes snapped open. "Oh." I repeated. I sat up and saw Dr. Barrows multiply. "How long was I out?" I groaned, holding both hands to my head. A concussion was never a nice thing, though this was the first time I've had firsthand experience. It felt like being tackled by a Super Mutant.

Wait, I _had _been attacked by a Super Mutant. Bastard.

"29 hours." A ghoulish yet distinctly feminine voice replied. The new found information sent a wave of urgency through me. I was wasting time – I had a job to do and I was sitting on my ass.

I jumped out of bed to prove to myself that I was _not_ sitting on my ass, I was standing thank-you-very-much. I swayed in place and had to windmill my arms to keep from falling over.

"I wouldn't advise trying anything strenuous for the next few days. You took a pretty hard blow, kid."

"But I have to find the... uh..." I paused, wracking my mind for an answer. I _knew_ I had an important job to do. I simply couldn't remember it. "The important thing." I finished lamely.

The ghoul crossed his arms. "Look kid, I didn't treat you so you could traipse off to find another Super Mutant to finish the job." I was ready to object, yet years of experience was telling me not to question a doctor on the opinion of your well-being. My shoulders slumped and I sat back on the cot, eying a pair of glowing feral ghouls behind a glass window.

"You know... they're kinda cute, in a freakish way. When they're not trying to eat your face."'

* * *

Finding that I could not recall where I was supposed to be headed, I resolved to stay put in the Underworld until I could maintain my short term memory. I also met my "savior" - a ghoul named Willow. She had spotted a Super Mutant coming a bit too close to the Underworld and shot it, tripping over my unconscious body when she went to make sure it was dead. When I thanked her, she snorted and called me a tourist.

I was grateful nonetheless.

So here I was, aimlessly wandering through the Museum of History. I released a heavy sigh and sat down on a bench, head in my hands and arms on my knees. I must have seemed really depressed because a ghoul patted my shoulder comfortingly and sat down beside me.

"What'sa matter smoothskin."

I gave a dramatic world-weary sigh. "Everything. I'm a smoothskin and a tourist and in here everyone stares at me while out there everyone is out to get me... What's the matter with you?"

"Nothin'. You just gotta drink a bit when you feel that way or you're never gonna make it out right. The world, I mean."

"There's a bar here?" I blinked. "And who're you?"

"Patchwork. I think... wait, what?"

"And I'm uh... wait."

"What?"

"You... tell me."

We sat in silent confusion. My head trauma was acting up and doing funny things to my memory while Patchwork just seemed very drunk or mildly insane.

"I... think a drink sounds good right now."

"Ninth Cir-Circle. Talk to Ahzrukhal." Patchwork stuttered. "And... bring me some."

"Maybe." I confirmed and wandered off.

I found the Ninth Circle easily enough. I followed the strong smell of liquor and something else like a trail of breadcrumbs. The bar was quiet, with a few ghouls here and there sitting and drinking or using that "something else", keeping in their own far off world. The place made me light-headed, and as responsible decision making was not one of my strong suits, it was no surprise that I bought a drink or three. The beer gave me a fuzzy feeling like hugging a teddy bear. I wanted it to last so I kept on drinking.

I lost consciousness around my fifth glass. Not one of my brightest ideas - and Amata can attest to all the not-so-bright ideas I've devised in my lifetime.

I was shaken into consciousness by a rough hand and voice.

"My employer requests that I escort you out." The voice stated monotonously.

"Gimme five minutes." I sighed and snuggled into my arms.

The voice was determined. "Now. Smoothskin." I was picked up by the collar like a cat and forced to stand. I yawned and looked around blearily. The bar was empty. Apparently Ahzrukhal was about to close up shop and wanted to clear out the useless drunkard: me. I'd never been a useless drunkard before so I wasn't sure what to do. I considered flipping over a table and yelling unintelligibly, but decided against it because it meant physical exertion.

"Hey." I glanced up to the ghoul who had woken me, alcohol loosening my lips in a faint slur. He was at least a head taller than me and every inch as intimidating, but I couldn't focus my eyes. He was a giant dark blur. "I can see myself out –" I caught sight of the shotgun - at least I thought it was a shotgun - on his back and my curiosity bubbled. I had the strangest urge to pluck it out of its holster and run off laughing and _god _was I drunk. "Why do you have a shotgun? Do people get into fights here? Ever kill a man? I did, once. Except it was clearly self-defense so you can't report me to the authorities."

I was rambling, something the gargoyle of a ghoul had no inclination to listen to because he said mechanically, like he'd said it a thousand times and had programmed it as an automatic response: "Talk to Ahzrukhal." By this point I noticed I was being led out of the establishment by a firm hand on my back and dug my heels in the floor when I passed Ahzrukhal counting his caps. Six foot ghoul with a shotgun be damned, I was drunk.

"He says to talk to you." I told the barkeep. He fixed me with a distinctly irritated gaze, but I guess he remembered I had caps to spend and waved the other ghoul away.

"That's because I ordered him to."

"Doesn't he scare your customers?"

Ahzrukhal raised a brow, one of the few ghouls who still could. "Of course. That's the point. Charon is a loyal employee. He makes sure... no one messes with me." That was a silent threat if I've ever heard one. Slogans for the Ninth Circle popped into my head: 'Buy our liquor and you won't find yourself in the bottom of an irradiated lake!' 'Drink or eat lead!'.

It was hard to contain my curiosity. "What do you mean by 'loyal'?"

"It means I hold his contract, which makes me his employer. He will do what I ask, when I ask, without question." At my blank stare he described the contract and Charon's conditioning to obey the holder's every command. "Don't get me wrong, I have no doubt that he holds no end of animosity towards me. But so long as he is my employee, he is as gentle as a teddy bear." I pictured a yao guai balancing on a circus ball and giggled. To Ahzrukhal's credit, he ignored me.

Then a crazy thought popped into my alcohol addled brain. What if that yao guai could follow me? He was certainly scary enough to keep unnecessary trouble away, and it would be nice for someone to watch my back and prevent another Super Mutant from playing baseball with my head.

"How much for the contract?"

"Charon is an invaluable asset to this establishment... it won't be cheap."

It ended up as 1000 caps and an agreement to never do business with someone named Greta. I was one hell of a businesswoman, I thought smugly as I held the contract in my hands. I was grinning like a loon when I skipped up to Charon, tilting my head back to meet his gaze.

He barely glanced at me. "Talk to Ahzrukhal -" I waved the contract in his face and my grin widened. Now he _had _to talk to me. Brilliant. I was brilliant. Charon paused in a decided silence. "You purchased my contract from Ahzrukhal? So, I am no longer in his service. That is good to know."

I noticed a strained anticipation in his voice and thought he was simply happy to have a new job, be able to see new sights. You know, like a vacation or something. He told me he had business to take care of so I assumed he wanted his paycheck or to say goodbye to his former employer. I sat in a chair and waited, beaming.

Until there was a thunderous gunshot and Ahzrukhal no longer had a head to speak of. Another shot made my head ring as Charon ensured his former employer was not going to wake up in the morning.

"What. The fuck. That. I... the hell." I gaped as he returned with a small pouch in hand. He dropped it into my hesitant palm. It was my 1000 caps. "The guy was kind of sleazy – kinda reminded me of Moriarty – but –"

"Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded. But as you have purchased my contract, I was free to rid the world of that disgusting rat. For good or for ill, I serve you now." Charon met my gaze this time, sharp and cold enough to snap me out of my drunken stupor.

I groaned and slapped an hand over my face. "I'm too drunk for this."

Let me tell you, the last thing an employer wants to see is a picture yourself painting the wall with your brain.


	3. The Moon's a Sweet Roll

I'm honored by your reviews! Truth be told, I wasn't expecting any, so I'm very happy that there are people reading. Thank you! :) I apologize for the little amount of humor in this chapter. 1) I'm not funny, and 2) I wrote this at one in the morning. Also, Happy Thanksgiving.

I feel as if I'm dragging it out now. Gotta find a balance in moving the story along. And I need to find a dub for the LW other than kid and girl, yet I still don't want to name her. Huh, predicament.

P.S. - I changed the title from Post-Apocalypse to Post-Apocalyptia. I was hesitant to name it the latter at first because it's not a real word, but I'm pretty sure Fallout 3 uses it and it sounds nifty.

**The Moon's a Sweet Roll**

I rented a night at Carol's Place and fell asleep immediately. It was noon when I opened my eyes and wished I was still asleep; I had one hell of a hangover. I stood and noticed how hard it was to stand. I stepped forward and noticed the room spin. I groaned.

Today was going to be a long day.

Charon was already up, sitting at a table apparently waiting for me. He had spent the night in his former accommodations, as he told me when I asked.

That was the thing with this guy. He never spoke unless spoken to. Worse than trying to communicate with a brick wall. And I tried, believe me.

"I'm supposed to find a relay dish for a guy named Three Dog. It's in the Museum of Technology so that's where we're headed next."

"If that is what you wish."

"Uh, thanks! By the way, my head hurts. You worked in a bar, know any of 'mom's homemade recipes' for curing hangovers?"

The joke was supposed to lighten the mood... and Charon sat there with his arms crossed, the embodiment of complete apathy. Admittedly, I wasn't the funniest of people (I left that to Butch, the vault idiot), but it would have been enough to give me a consolation smile. "None that I have come across." He replied instead , as if he had been asked a real question. I almost turned around and went back to sleep but bravely resisted, though I gave up my attempts at conversation.

"I'm gonna go talk to Carol." I walked away with my head hung low, gathering that I wouldn't be making friendly chit chat on our future outings.

Thankfully, Carol managed to distract me with her sincere happiness of Gob's well being. "He's working in Megaton as a bartender." More like slaving away for a slimy Irishman who would sell his own children for a couple of caps (not that there was anyone in the world willing to marry him). But Carol didn't need to know that.

She smiled with relief and placed a hand on her chest. "You don't know how good it is to hear about the dear. Please tell him that it's best if he stays where he is; it's become so dangerous out here." I nodded. The parental affection in her voice made my chest throb and I blamed the hangover until I was suddenly having a vivid flashback of my tenth birthday with dad.

I missed him.

At this point I became hauntingly aware of the emptiness squeezing my heart and not an hour later, after resupplying on ammo, did I find Charon and myself duking it out with super mutants in the Museum of Technology. I was driven into restless determination, the only reason I was able to ignore a hideously painful headache gnawing at my skull (the Sugar Bombs I had for breakfast didn't hurt either). The concussion obviously wanted to remind me not to screw around, but maverick was my middle name - I told Charon as much and he gave me a strange look (as strange as a ghoul with no facial features to speak of could give).

I wasn't completely oblivious to everything outside of shooting super mutants - I discovered Ahzrukhal's trust in his former employee/killer's abilities was not unfounded; poor Ahzrukhal just wasn't as smart when it came to considering long term consequences of his actions.

My ass was saved countless times as we slowly fought our way inwards. On one occasion I was actually pushed over a banister. Charon shot the offending super mutant in the face and caught me by my belt in the nick of time, like one of those comic book heroes I read about when readable books weren't as lacking as Charon's sense of humor.

By the time we reached the dish adrenaline had me red in the face and the headache had me nauseous. But my relief was palpable, as if the weight of a super mutant Behemoth had slipped off my shoulders.

"Almost there, dad." I giggled, and then the world fell from under me.

* * *

"...Damn kid exhausted herself. I specifically _told _her to take it easy and she goes off to play shoot 'em up with super mutants. Why the hell didn't you stop her?" Dr. Barrows grumbled, sounding harassed. A pause. "Right, you can't. Well let's hope she doesn't become a regular in here, as much as I appreciate the funding."

"Nice of you to worry." I said loudly. "How long this time?"

"Enough for the sun to set. Charon brought you back." Nurse Graves answered once again. "At this rate you're just begging to become Dr. Barrow's next research subject." I shuddered inwardly at the notion. The good doctor collected and dissected human specimens to study the "ghoulification" process. Not a donation to science I was willing to make - and I was a doctor's daughter.

I paid Dr. Barrows and was quickly out of the Chop Shop (their name, not mine).

* * *

It was quiet in the atrium, no one appeared to hang around the area except the skeleton of a prehistoric beast. I took a deep breath of musty museum air and for the first time in a long time, found myself in no hurry. I tilted my head to give a sideways glance at Charon. "Thanks for all the help back there."

I expected a grunt of acknowledgment, a shrug, a nod – something silent, recognizing the formidable team we made.

I received the exact opposite. "Kid, I don't know how you survived as long as you have," he started emphatically, "but you need to learn how to pick your fights or else we'll both wind up dead."

Taken aback, I could only gape indignantly at his outburst. Really, my accomplishments were better than Charon was making them out to be – it wasn't just blind luck that got the dish now laying beside me.

_Right, because that was Charon_.

I shook off the beginnings of doubt and purposely diverted attention away from myself. "We should install the dish in the Washington Monument. Could you...?" Charon slung the dish on his back without another word.

"Thanks." I smiled awkwardly as we made our way westward. "I would carry it myself, but these bruises _hurt _like hell. Goddamn super mutants don't know how to treat a girl..." I grumbled for a good while about the brutes and their mothers in words I picked up in Moriarty's bar, until an unexpected thought popped in my head. "So Charon, how much do I pay you?"

He paused in mid-step. The reaction lasted less than a second, but if I didn't know better I would have called it surprise. "...As you hold my contract, you are my employer, and I will do as you command as long as it remains in your possession. I am not commissioned with pay." The words were formal, reserved, and completely at odds with his earlier remarks. It reminded me of Wadsworth and made me uncomfortable. I began playing with my braid out of nervous habit.

We paused to take down a super mutant before returning to the subject at hand. The whole process of fighting had become noticeably easier and less of a life-threatening situation.

"I haven't read your contract, though it sounds stricter than the Overseer. So tell me, what exactly does your contract enjoin?"

"As I have said, you hold the contract and I do as you bid. I shoot whomever wishes to do you harm. There is nothing complicated about it. Violence on your part invalidates the contract." I had the vague impression that he was annoyed at my not doing my homework, something Mr. Brotch never had to suffer (believe it or not, I was one of the smartest students in the class). A light bulb went off somewhere in the recesses of my mind.

"Wait. That sounds more like slavery than employment." Slavery hadn't even been considered a legitimate option. It was a long gone, dead practice – from what I read in history books, at least. I did a 180 to face him, incredulous. "You can't seriously mean to say you follow that scrap of paper? What if I told you to jump off a bridge – laugh at all my jokes?"

"I would comply. It's how I was programmed." Charon narrowed his eyes, a silent "don't push it".

Programmed. Like a robot, like Andy or Wadsworth. Maybe I should tell Charon to pull a mole rat out of a hat? It really seemed like he'd have to follow the order, as hard a time as I was having to swallow the fact. But from what I've experienced in the Capital Wasteland, I was beginning to believe it was truly possible.

"Who would program a kid like that? I thought Ahzrukhal had been exaggerating when he told me... really, where the hell did you grow up?" I faced the ghoul, waiting for an answer. He looked hesitant – I had never seen him hesitate.

"If that is your wish to know..."

And that was all it took for my curiosity to clear out and make room for guilt. I threw my hands up and quit thinking too deeply on the matter. "Damn it. If you don't want to talk about it, I won't make you. Gimme a break, I'm new to this whole having-a-person-who-will-obey-my-every-whim thing." I was mad at him for making me feel guilty from a perfectly reasonable question, mad at the individuals who did sick things like make human-robot-slaves, and mad at myself for being ignorant to _everything_. We arrived at the rundown obelisk before I could reach the full potential of my ranting. Charon glanced warily at the two Brotherhood guards as we passed, but I made little of it in my guilt/sort-of righteous fury. We were in the elevator when I could no longer hold my silence.

"Okay... first official order. Stop acting like Wadsworth – he's a robotic butler and unless you grow a propeller and start cutting hair, I want you to talk like a human being. Hooray for freedom of speech and all that." I crossed my arms and tapped the floor with one impatient foot.

"If that is what you wish... kid." Charon added at my expectant look. I finally nodded, satisfied, though I disapproved his choice of nickname. The elevator door opened to the night air. I gasped.

For me, the sky would never get old. I spent 19 years of my life waking up to a metal ceiling, going to sleep under a metal ceiling, and hitting my head against a metal ceiling.

I nearly fell off the monument while installing the dish because I was busy star gazing. The moon was full, or almost full. It was white and round, glowing and ripe for the taking, only an arm's length away instead of the thousands of miles that books taught me. It was a gift for the soul, a guiding light in a dark wasteland - and I was not meant to be a poet. "It's like a sweet roll." I mentioned to Charon. He remained silent, and I was disappointed to learn he was naturally the taciturn type. I don't know, I guess I assumed he would suddenly open up, brahmin would stop smelling, and there would be world peace.

We remained at the top of the monument sky watching until the Brotherhood guards exited the elevator, ready to kick us out to get some shut eye.

"Let's head back to the Underworld. I'm..." I yawned, "dead tired."

We were sneaking by the super mutants when I began prying at Charon's past once again, despite my previous declarations against such. "Why did they want to make, you know, people like you? Was it a long time ago? Dr. Barrows told me that ghouls live longer than regular humans due to some DNA mutating scientific mumbo jumbo."

This time, Charon did not remain passive. It was the closest to snapping I've seen him. "Kid, I appreciate your attention, _really_. If you're this eager to 'uncover the depths of my past', you need only to order it so."

I shut up for the rest of the trip, unsure whether to feel pleased because Charon was sharing his thoughts or bothered by the fact that I held the contract that controlled his very being.

* * *

"You know, Galaxy News Radio actually has some pretty good tunes." The girl noted as she hummed along. Though sometimes off pitch, the sound was not _unpleasant._

Though it would have been intelligent to shut up when we were supposed to be sneaking through the metro – it was on her order too, so I couldn't understand what stupidity possessed her to make my job that much more difficult. It was too late to matter; I didn't bother to advise her to turn off the damn radio because the next moment we were in middle of a firefight.

_"Hey everybody, did the news get around about a guy named Butcher Pete"_

"I'll eat your heart, girlie." A woman sang as she sprang from behind a train, lunging at the kid with a _goddamn ripper_. I cursed and threw up an arm to deflect a knife aimed at my throat, questioning how the hell I didn't see this coming before shooting the raider in the head and aimed at the woman next. I pulled the trigger; she screamed, ripper flying ten feet away, arm and all. The next shot filled her with lead.

_ "Oh, Pete just flew into this town and he's choppin' up all the women's meat"_

The kid sat there gaping like she's never seen a corpse. I had to take care of the last three bastards while making sure none of them got the idea that she was a free kill.

The last raider took a throat full of bullets, neck gurgling blood before he dropped. I scowled and holstered my gun, moving to check on my "employer".

I felt like I was babysitting the kid, though I couldn't be sure for how much longer. It had taken a fucking _miracle_ for her to reach the Underworld alive, and I was far from walking on water.

_ "He keeps hackin' and whackin' and smackin'"_

"I... think I'm gonna be sick." The kid moaned, holding her stomach. I took a step back – my contract did not entail getting covered in vomit.

She was staring at the dead raider who had wanted her for dinner. I cursed again and considered that all of this was some kind of cruel retribution from above for wronging the _wrong _kind of people – the kid had more than likely never seen a human corpse, let alone _mild_ gore like this. I still wasn't certain of what conditions she had grown up in, but it obviously had been underground and far, far off in a dreamland I'd like to visit.

_"He keeps hackin' and whackin' and smackin'"_

"We can't stay in the open." I coaxed, willing her to _get over it already_.

She stood, albeit dazedly. For the hundredth time I questioned her sanity and health. Who the hell out here faints from mental exhaustion because they _miss their dad_? "I have blood on my clothes." The kid told me and shuddered. "I want a bath. Really badly. God I didn't even know an arm could bleed that much."

Well she was babbling again. That was always a good sign. I think.I enjoyed a peaceful, sensible silence, but this girl thought otherwise.

_ "He keeps hackin' and whackin' and smackin'..."_

"It would be wise to turn off the radio."

"But it's _soothing_." As always, she had to make things difficult – though she decided to lower the volume. The utterly world-weary sigh resting in my throat did nothing to convince her that I did not give a damn. She talked too much, asked too many questions on subjects I'd rather not remember, and cared too much when she should be doing the opposite. The kid was so naive that it was painful to watch her survive through the day – when I was not actually in pain from helping her survive through the day. Speaking of which... "You're bleeding." She observed next, a bit steadier.

"Nothing important." It wasn't. But like everything else, the kid caught hold of the fact and wouldn't let go.

"It could get infected. Then your arm will fall off like..." She glanced at the dead raider once again and made a face.

"I'm a ghoul. I'm already falling apart. And that is unnecessary." I pointed out. She huffed even as she pulled out a stimpak to waste on a wound that did not need one.

"Untrue! At least the arm falling off due to being a ghoul part. Dr. Barrows taught me more than just about your longevity. But can ghouls get infections? I haven't learned about that yet."

"The stimpak is unnecessary." I repeated.

"You're bleeding onto the floor. Now use the stimpak before I do it for you." I doubt she's aware of every order she gives. I could only comply. The prickling feeling of an injury closing was replaced by annoyance.

I needed to get used to the kid's misguided compassion. She obviously didn't know better and it would end with her death, but as my goddamn programming left me little in the way of options, I could only resolve to follow orders and wait it through. The world took and swallowed her kind of people, spitting them out into irradiated ditches for the feral ghouls. I've lived enough to be well acquainted with the fact that _shit happens, _and I stopped caring long ago.

_"You're listening to the adventures of me, Herbert "Daring" Dashwood, and my stalwart ghoul manservant, Argyle!"_

"All right! I've been waiting for another episode." The kid cheered.


	4. Just Like in the Stories

Whew! I finished the whole thing in one sitting. I'm feeling kinda self-conscious the further I write. I look back and see grammatical errors and inconsistencies with the game and slap myself. So please be gentle with any errors I make in the Fallout universe! And I recently discovered fanfiction dot net's beta reader program and now I'm yearning for one. Anyone here an open beta reader…? Haha, I wish.

**Just Like in the Stories**

After a long night camping out in the metro being serenaded by the howling of feral ghouls, I was more than happy to be blinded by the midday sunlight. Funny how a lifetime accustomed to inhabiting a one mile radius underground didn't keep me from feeling claustrophobic.

Super mutant corpses still littered the GNR plaza and I, with a smug expression, pointed to the Behemoth to show Charon I had not been making it up when I said I killed one. Actually, I wasn't sure if he had been listening in the metro when I decided my Heroic Wasteland Tales would be good for morale (Influenced by the installations on GNR, I briefly considered myself the next "Daring" of the Wastes - I had ghoul manservant too so I _couldn't_ just let it go), and my ego took a bruising as he walked past the dead mutant with his masterful poker face. The bastard.

"What, you're not coming in?" I asked sourly when he stopped short of entering the door, bitter about the lack of acknowledgment.

"They don't take too kindly to ghouls." He explained simply, confusing me nonetheless.

I furrowed my brows. "The Brotherhood of Steel? No, they're the good guys! Prevented my untimely death by super mutants."

"Super mutants or ghouls, they have nothing against shooting either on sight." Charon shrugged and gave me a look I've come to recognize as a sign that I had missed the obvious.

"That must be a mistake. These guys protect people!" I still protested, unwilling to give up. The Brotherhood of Steel was like a group of knights in shining power armor – the champions of the weak, the defenders of justice, and so on. As I had said, they were the _good guys_ of the story.

Charon wasn't impressed by my avid defense and sighed. "If you don't believe me, then I shall follow, but I can't guarantee it'll end peacefully."

I backed down when he reached for his shotgun. "No! I – Never mind..." I muttered, disheartened and a little overwhelmed. "I'll go by myself. Wait for me here, and don't shoot anyone if you can help it, okay?"

I was out of the GNR building as soon as I'd popped the coordinates of Rivet City into my Pip-Boy; my haste was initially due to a weird uneasiness I felt when I tried meet the gaze of the Brotherhood and flinched at the sight of their helmets, but was soon instilled by the eagerness to reach our next destination.

A city on a boat - I was excited to go and see it for myself.

"Ever been to Rivet City?" I asked Charon the second I was out the doors. A decided silence surprised me - I hadn't really expected an answer. He didn't look at me as we headed back into the metro, but that only served to feed my curiosity. "So tell me, what were you there for?"

"A job. Nothing to concern yourself with." I swear, he sounded blander than usual as he said this; as if talking in monotone would deter more questions. His plan failed, of course. It's an unwritten rule of knowledge that what you don't know, you find out about. Secrets in particular.

I decided this was a good time to utilize the contract. I had been tiptoeing around any orders if I could help it, but I thought this time it was for a good cause: getting Charon to open up. "We're going there next. Telling me a bit about it couldn't hurt, and it'll be productive to learn about each other." I start carefully, but see him stiffen as if to brace himself for what came next. "So tell me about your trip to Rivet City."

The conversation stopped as we entered the main area of the metro, but a coldness lingered. I knew he must have done worse things than have to talk to a curious young _woman_ of all things, so I couldn't sympathize with his plight. I felt like he was overreacting, being the kid he always called me. I found it funny.

The station was empty; Charon and I had cleared out the feral ghouls on our previous trips. It was safe to talk and I threw him an expectant look.

Charon kept his eyes forward as he spoke. He gritted out every word. "It was before you were born." Before I was born? Charon was a ghoul so I couldn't identify his age, but he definitely did not give me the impression of an old man - sounded like one, but didn't _appear_ to be one. I wondered how old the ghoul truly was, but determined that was a conversation for another day and kept my mouth shut by strength of will alone. "I was there on orders, to locate a specific person -"

My "strength of will" scattered to the winds. "Kinda like now." I interrupted with a grin, wanting to lighten the mood. He was going to be stuck with me for quite a while, so might as well learn how to loosen up. "You're helping me find my dad, and in Rivet City no less."

Charon paused and looked at me fixedly. "…and kill her." He finished and the grin fell off my face, feeling like a ton of lead.

"But I'm sure whoever it was, must've deserved it. Right?" I laughed a pitch higher than normal.

"No. She crossed my employer." His matter-of-fact attitude cast an insignificant light on the information – but it _wasn't_ insignificant, it was _murder_.

"Oh…" I replied and we traveled in a cumbersome silence for the next hour. I unwillingly knew Charon had no choice when he got the orders to… make that girl disappear, but I still felt unease stewing in the pit of my stomach, along with the mild gurgling of hunger. As I munched on potato crisps, I would sneak glances at Charon who chose to follow some ways behind me; he seemed to notice and would meet my eyes every time. I quickly stopped and chose to focus on my Pip-Boy.

I grew up on books. Sometimes I would read books on history, scientific theories, and medicine (dad's educational curriculum was ridiculous, but when put to use in Mr. Brotch's class my ego multiplied in size), but the stories I was really fixated on were fiction, filled with pages where good and evil were easily distinguishable. The honest man always won in the end, or there was a moral point to be made that left no doubt on what was right and what was wrong. I loved the solidity of those stories.

Charon was the antithesis of all the truths I'd formed growing up. I couldn't put "the moral of the story is..." to his upbringing or his actions – I couldn't categorize him. It left me aghast and made me want to punch the wall.

I didn't. Punch the wall, that is. I sucked in old air through my teeth and fell into step beside the ghoul. "Will anyone recognize you when we get there? You should tell me now; I don't want to be chased out by an angry mob."

"They wouldn't recognize me." Charon brushed off my concern. "I hadn't… acquired this form at the time. And in any case, there can't be many of the original populace is left."

"Wait. How long ago was this 'trip'?" I wrinkled my nose, bemused.

"More than thirty years ago."

I was dumfounded. "More than – Dr. Barrows wasn't kidding when he said you guys age slowly." Charon shrugged; the conversation was finished.

I wasn't having that. "Did you know her?" I asked quietly.

"I did." His rough voice held a trace of bitterness, enough for me to pick up and know I shouldn't delve any further… for now.

* * *

I was greeted by a bullet imbedding itself in front of my feet when I stepped off the stairs of the metro. I swore none too gently and took an involuntary step back towards the grated doors.

"Ambush." Charon scowled and lifted his shotgun toward the unseen assailant. "Good thing they can't aim."

I threw him a less than amused glare before glancing at the stairs uncertainly. We could go back the way we came, but that would take another day at the very least, and I was unsure of any other ways to get to Rivet City. The only way to find my dad was to continue onwards, and yet… "I take it we can't go forward. What's the plan?"

Another shot whizzed past my ear and Charon pulled me down as successive gunshots rang out. He returned it this time, taking a chunk of stone out of the wall the attacker was using as a shield. He ducked and glanced at me.

"The plan is _you_ stay back."

"W-what? No way!" I spluttered and whipped out my hunting rifle. "Let me help, I'm not letting the SOB get away with shooting at me." And I couldn't sit still knowing I would be sending Charon out in harm's way in place of me.

"As you wish." He grounded out, obviously unenthusiastic at the idea. But an order was an order and he couldn't disobey.

"Quit your worrying, I can handle myself fine. Bet you fifty caps I can hit the next guy that pops up." I peeked to the side of our hiding spot and pulled the trigger; I was rewarded by the metallic clatter of a gun hitting the floor and a grunt of pain. I'd hit my target and it felt _good_.

I sent Charon a grin that said 'I told you so' (and I swear, honest to God, that humorless bastard returned it) and continued to exchange fire.

Gunfights don't last long, especially when Charon makes every bullet count. For a ghoul that uses a shotgun, he's first-rate at aiming. I holstered my rifle and approached the bodies, turning on my Pip-Boy's light because in the dark it was hard to distinguish the three from the background. I met the glassy blue eyes of one of the men and my previous confidence all but fled – I shut my eyes and tried to swallow unsuccessfully; my throat was constricting uncomfortably.

"Talon Company." Charon muttered, either having not noticed, or ignored my distress. I counted it as a blessing and struggled to compose myself.

"Who're they?" I choked out and counted the cracks in the cement. One, two, three, four, blood filling up crack five…

"Mercenaries." I heard shuffling, then the rustle of paper. "…The Lone Wanderer. They were after you." The Lone Wanderer, a title graciously given to me by Three Dog. I took a liking to the name – it was mysterious and reminded me of the Wild West I read about in books.

I didn't like it being used on bounties rewarding 1000 caps for my bullet-ridden corpse. "I don't remember crossing anyone named 'B'." I examined the note closely, as if I could discover all the secrets within it by ruining my eyesight.

"Yet you did something stupid enough to warrant hit men." _Thanks for the obvious, Charon_.

"Oh well. I can't think of doing anything worth my death. Let's just go." I finally input the note into my Pip-Boy to muse on later.

"You can't ignore it, kid." Charon muttered but didn't argue. He began rummaging the bodies, examining their guns and searching for ammo, which is when I became decidedly silent. I knew it was the way of life up here - you took what you could - I did the same (to super mutants, feral ghouls - anything that didn't stare at me with eyes like mine), but I didn't have to like it.

"Hey, could you close their eyes? It's creepy." I mumbled, half embarrassed, half feeling ill at the thought of their dead, accusing stares burning into my skin. Charon said nothing as he complied. "Thanks."

We moved on soon enough, and I was distracted from my nausea as I spotted the enormous black aircraft carrier looming in the distance. It was as if an internal trigger had sprung and woke up the knowledge that I was _so close_ to finding him.

I began running.

_Dad, are you here?_

_

* * *

_

"Where's Jefferson Memorial?"

Dr. Li pursed her lips disapprovingly. I could sense she disliked me - the calculating way she stared at me unnerved me; it was like being judged by the Overseer. But I understood why she disliked me after learning of Project Purity. I was the road bump that sent all her hard work careening down a cliff. When I was born, mom died, dad left the project, and Dr. Li was left behind with the knowledge of their failure.

Charon's steady presence was placating; I focused on the ghoul beside me and breathed deeply, feeling if I lost my anchor I would become unhinged. Dad wasn't here. I had missed him, just like I had missed him in Megaton. Instead I discovered that he had lied to me, I wasn't born in Vault 101, and he left to complete a project he abandoned long ago. I was learning too much about my dad that he never thought to tell me.

"I advise against following James." The scientist shook her head and studied me mercilessly, _searchingly_. Her gaze softened and grew far-away. I think she found whatever it was she had been looking for and I slumped in relief, as if I'd passed an important test. "Yet I know you're as determined as your father." She agreed to mark Jefferson Memorial on my map and even answered my questions.

She told me about mom – _Catherine_. How she and dad were in love. An image of my parents together wormed into my head, mom happy and alive and dad without his constantly overworked appearance, sending a pang of longing through my chest. I didn't know what mom looked like but over the years I had shaped a picture in my mind.

She had kind eyes, a gentle smile, and could give one hell of a hug.

* * *

"One night, room for two please." I asked Vera Weatherly politely. She was attractive – the kind of attractive that incited jealous eye gouging cat fights.

It made me self-conscious. I glanced involuntarily at my mussy hair sticking out of its braid and the dirt beneath my nails and felt my face heat up. I resisted the urge to smell myself because I knew the odor must be horrifying.

"Sure, honey." She smiled amiably, unaware of the insecurity she had provoked. I caught her bemused expression directed at Charon; I kept forgetting people were unused to ghouls and paid her hurriedly, all the while wishing my fingers were as long and slender as hers.

I collapsed on my cot with a groan of exhaustion, haphazardly tossing my gun and supplies on the ground. The day's journey had left me aching all over, while Dr. Li's information left a aching in my chest. As Charon cleaned his gun, I labored to undo my braid. I had slept with my hair done up for days and my head was itching something fierce (I shuddered at the thought of what was _in_ my hair). It was times like these that made having long hair troublesome – one way or another my hair and Pip-Boy got tangled up into an unmanageable mess. I froze for a few seconds and dreaded what came next.

"Uh, Charon, could you help?" I coughed to catch his attention. The ghoul rolled his eyes, placed his shotgun gently down, and pulled up a chair beside my cot. I flushed again and hoped the accumulated dirt on my face would cover it.

His hands were warmer than expected. They felt uneven with decay and sent a shiver down my spine. I held my breath as his fingers ran through my hair, unknotting it skillfully. Soon I was struggling to keep my eyes open because _god_ it felt nice. I couldn't even talk because I was afraid of saying something stupid in my relaxed and drowsy state. My arm fell to my side. Charon returned to his cot and left me feeling strangely empty.

"Thank you." I murmured awkwardly. The room filled with the sound slow breathing. "Charon?" The ghoul paused in the middle of taking apart his gun. "It wasn't your fault, what happened to that girl. You couldn't help it."

"…Thanks kid." I curled up against the wall and started to drift off. He must have assumed I was asleep, because he added softly, "if only it were true."

* * *

A/N: A brief justification on my LW's characterization. Although she was not born in Vault 101, she grew up in it, and is quite naïve to world outside. I once found a list of the jumbled up dialogue that plays through the age progression of the LW in the beginning of the game, and it surprised me. It seems like Vault 101 life was similar to our own… except the LW lived underground and in the post-apocalypse. But Vault 101 had music, underage drinking, and even prom. So I'm basing the LW as an average young woman. Hope she comes off as one!

P.S. – Catherine is old and black. All your previous conceptions are wrong. Go check the Fallout Wikia. Haha. :)


	5. God Damn Robots

I think I'm addicted to writing this. Haha! But somewhere along the way the quality worsened and I lost the concept of telling a story, let alone of making it flow. I apologize. Sort of. This is a "just for fun" story so please don't hurt me. If anyone is reading this, I'd appreciate guidance on where to go next. Side quest, main quest, less character inner monologues, more action, etc. What say you?

**God Damn Robots**

Thirty years ago, when I'd put a bullet between that woman's eyes, I'd expected it to be my final time in Rivet City. I ran back to my master like a dog, all the while imagining a thousand bloody, agonizing ways to gut the bastard while he watched. I'd never be able to act on my murderous intent, but it was enough to bury myself in hatred. I told myself they hadn't taken away everything – I had no free will, no dignity, no future – but I still had my fucking mind.

But the higher power above - the son of a bitch - thought to make a joke of my life and turned me into a walking corpse since being a slave wasn't funny enough, before throwing me back onto a ship I didn't expect to see again.

I always knew karma would come back to bite me on the ass, but _this_, this was _inhumane_.

And I wasn't human.

"Fucking hilarious." I growled at the ceiling, feeling inordinately satisfied to blaspheme in the holiest place on the piece of scrap metal. Saint Monica was a joke (born from ghouls my ass - I'd sooner believe Ahzrukhal a saint), but this was still a church.

It was early morning, early enough that no one other than security was awake. Meaning I could walk outside without being lynched. I had a couple of spare hours to call the Almighty petty names before the girl noticed I was gone, and I planned to make the most of it. She needed twice as much rest as I did and could sleep through a firefight; one of the many boons of having the smoothskin as my newest employer.

I was _almost_ disturbed by my thoughts of how long it would take for the girl to get herself killed (a month, tops). I would protect her for as long as I breathed - or as long as she held my contract - but sooner or later she'd screw up and I wouldn't be able to save her.

The Wasteland taught you pragmatism. Or put you six feet under. Since I wasn't planning on buying the farm anytime soon, reason told me not to get attached. I didn't have anything against the kid, she was self-absorbed and nosy, but infinitely more tolerable than most that had preceded her; it meant I'd gotten lucky - and luck never lasted in the Capital Wasteland.

And because my life was such a great big fucking comedy, the voice of the kid wheedled through my thoughts.

"Charon?"

What was the old saying? Seeking happiness is a straight way to misery. I should know by now that a peaceful morning was too much to ask for.

* * *

My Pip-Boy read six in the morning when I shuffled groggily out of sleep. I wondered why the vault wasn't flooded with sweet rolls and milk and mini Butch-men when I realized I wasn't dreaming.

A shame. It had been a damn good dream.

The Pip-Boy cast a soft green glow on the room. I'd slept to and woken up to the light for so long that it would concern me more if I _didn't_ see it when I woke up.

It also revealed that Charon wasn't in the room. I was fairly confused, but unworried; the ghoul could take care of himself and he had never come off as a person who needed much sleep.

"Probably wandering the halls in the dead of night." I giggled at the idea and imagined unaware passerby being scared out of their wits as they spotted his dark form bumbling down the halls, like an honest to god zombie.

Well, Charon never did _bumble_. He walked impressively stealthily for being over six feet tall.

I stood and stretched, joints cracking with a gross _pop_ as I loosened my stiff limbs. I was still sore from yesterday's trek, but I was fully awake and had a present goal to achieve.

I was going to find the bathroom before my bladder exploded. I slung my rucksack over my shoulder and made sure the room key was in my pocket before exiting. The metal door creaked and I winced at the noise. The halls were dark and empty, silent save for the low hum of generators. "Someone has to do a better job on the upkeep." I mumbled as I attempted to locate the stairwell. I found it eventually, with a lot of quiet cursing, and was soon following the signs to the bathroom. It was on the lowest level and smelled like the rear end of a brahmin.

You know what I missed about the vault? Garbage burners (and soap, Amata, food rations, and books). They didn't just stand in front of an incinerator all day, chucking in all our trash – they were the vault janitors, cleaning up our messes. Sure, I'd poked fun at the poor souls (a completely legitimate sport), but as I stood in front of a toilet so dirty that I gave a dry heave, I would've given all the sweet rolls in the world for one to wipe down the goddamned bathroom. You never appreciate what you have until it's gone, and garbage burners had proven themselves priceless.

As paradoxical as it sounded, I endured the lack of garbage burners for the sake of hygiene. I relieved myself and then faced the grimy sinks, ready to do battle with the offending filth on my person.

I had no soap and wasn't desperate enough to experiment with Abraxo cleaner, but I turned on the faucet and whetted a towel I took from my bag, intent on scrubbing myself raw. I buried my face in the damp cloth, cheeks tingling from cold and radiation. All food and water in the wastes seemed to carry a trace of radiation; I acclimated to the fact, but carried a couple of Rad-Away at all times -as handy as it may have been (pun intended), the last thing I wanted was a third arm growing out of my stomach.

My skin was noticeably paler when I finished, though stained a blotchy red attributed to sunburn. All in all I was the natural color of a girl who'd existed underground for a lifetime before my first encounter with the magical ultraviolet ray.

I finished my makeshift bath for the morning, not wanting to strip down to my undies in a public restroom. I left, feeling wet and irradiated with a possible year taken off my life, yet cleaner than before. With less dust clogging my pores and my thoughts, I could finally focus on basic necessities I'd ignored for over a week.

Like a warm meal. My stomach twisted painfully, berating me for my unhealthy diet of junk food and Sugar Bombs. Except for preserved foods, there wasn't much else I could eat while traveling. There was an experiment in the metro - at my request Charon had set up a fire and I roasted some mole rat meat; it ended with my heaving out my partially digested breakfast and refusing to eat anything else we killed. So by this point, I was hungry enough that _radroach_ sounded edible. But Rivet City was a large settlement and I suspected there to be a food vendor at the marketplace; I could only hope to find it before I ran into any giant bugs.

Only I found the marketplace locked tight.

Well shit.

It was 7:26 AM. I wanted to slap the grin right off of the Vault Boy's cheeky face. I chose instead to scowl at my Pip-Boy and return to my room, but somewhere along the way I took a wrong turn. A single open door caught my attention, and as always curiosity bested common sense. I poked my head inside.

There were two aisles of metal pews and a rickety stand placed at the front. I recognized the place - it was the same as the chapel back at home, at Vault 101.

I'd stumbled across a church. And that wasn't the most surprising discovery of the day - seated alone in the front row was Charon. He looked deep in thought, clued by the fact that he didn't take notice as I shuffled closer. Usually he was very perceptive, so sneaking up on him filled me with childish glee. I took care not to startle him _too_ much; I'd seen how deadly he was with that shotgun of his.

"Charon?"

The ghoul twitched, the only sign of his surprise. "I apologize for leaving the room without your permission." If he'd said something like that a week ago, I'd have been utterly embarrassed. His submissiveness still made me uncomfortable, but the ghoul had too many quirks for me not to grow accustomed.

"No big deal. I told you, do what you need to do before we go." I took the chance to take a seat next to him. I smiled awkwardly and spoke the first words that came to mind. "You didn't come off as the religious type."

"I'm not." He shrugged and fixed me with his murky eyes. A chill ran down my spine. Ghoul eyes unnerved me; they had no lids, no pupils, no light. They were perfectly blank. Eyes of the dead.

I turned away and swung my feet restlessly. "Well I think it must be nice to have a faith. Religion can be an emotional anchor - give a moral code to abide by." I paused before adding jokingly, _"God _knows people need it up here."

Charon quirked his lips upward in a smirk (which, by the way, looks absolutely menacing on a ghoul). "You didn't come off as the irreligious type." I almost balked with surprise. Did he just express an _emotion_? Was he... teasing me? I must have been dreaming, but the pain of pinching my arm said otherwise. This was definitely the most personal conversation I'd had with the ghoul. And all it took was a philosophical discussion about ideology. Go figure.

"I like to think of myself agnostic. I was raised as a doctor's daughter, you know."

"Yes. I do." Charon commented wryly. At least now I knew that he had been listening to me in the metro.

"Well with a lifetime influenced by science, I can't simply have blind faith in an invisible, omniscient being. I'm partial to logic." I thought he looked doubtful, but it's hard to read a ghoul's expression. "We had a chaplain in the vault. I'd go and listen to his sermons, for kicks. He could be pretty inspiring… even if I annoyed him by asking too many questions and throwing up in the chapel." I chewed my lip thoughtfully. "But I like to believe in an afterlife. What about you, Charon?"

"Kid, if there is one, then I'm staying alive as long as possible."

"Huh? Why?" I raised a brow. "Isn't it nicer to think there's a great big beyond than nothing at all?" He scoffed, like I'd said something particularly stupid.

"Do I strike you as the type to sprout wings and a halo and start strumming a harp?"

So looked at him. He'd said the words with such self-condemnation that I couldn't refuse. I shut my mouth and scrutinized the ghoul, studying him as I would an anatomy book. He was six feet tall, as cuddly as a yao guai, had a face that looked like it had gone through a meat grinder, and eyes that freaked the hell out of me -

And I laughed.

Charon appeared positively affronted - meaning he frowned slightly harder than usual. It took some restraint but I finally fell into subdued giggles. "I-I'm sorry. It's just that I pictured you with wings and a tunic, sitting on a cloud with a golden harp, playing _heavenly_ music by the way -"

"_Kid._" He scowled.

"Sorry." I snorted loudly would have been mortifying if I wasn't so amused. I tried to cast a serious air and was fairly successful. "Look Charon. I've only known you for a week, but I'm sure if the Big Guy in the sky is real, he'll consider all the times you've saved my ass out here." And I really was grateful. I stood and stretched my stiff limbs. My stomach rumbled and I took it as my cue to leave. "I'll be in the Marketplace. If it's open."

* * *

The Marketplace was open, thank god. People were setting up shop as the early morning risers shambled in. I sniffed the air and reeled backwards. Hadn't anyone up here heard of a small thing called _hygiene_?

To be fair, the reason I was hacking up my lungs wasn't the foulness of the air, but rather the strength of the odors. They reminded me of the chemicals in my dad's lab.

Correction - the smell _was_ because of chemicals. Probably not of the same kind as in my dad's lab, but they reeked all the same. The smell originated at stall filled with an assortment of bottles, needles, and vials, all as mysterious to me as the workings of Charon's mind.

Hum. Weird comparison.

"Welcome to A Quick Fix! Any specific medicines or chems you lookin' to buy?" I jumped, guiltily dropping the gumdrops I'd been examining (Radioactive Gumdrops! Concerned the Nuclear Holocaust will leave you with no way to satiate that pesky sweet tooth? Worry no longer! Created by your trusted neighborhood Vault-Tec, these tasty candies were produced with a secret and completely harmless isotope that guarantees them to last for decades to come! While you enjoy your stay in one of our safe and secure Vault-Tec Vaults, never worry about another sugary craving again! They'll leave you _glowing_ with satisfaction!)

"O-oh. I don't know. What kinds of chems are there?" The owner of the voice, a pretty dark skinned woman, cast one last suspicious glance my way before smiling.

Buffout. Jet. The usual wares."

The only kind of chem I'd encountered was Mentats. They'd been useful when I needed to think. Gave me insomnia and a slight tic... but cleared my head. I remembered we'd needed to restock on medical supplies anyhow, and the chems could come in handy. My interest was piqued. "Jet you say?"

"We have Psycho too. Or medicines if that isn't your kind of thing."

"Let's get back to the chems." I pointed at the red inhaler, expression all business and no play. "How much for a bundle?"

I ended up buying a couple of everything. I feared my rucksack would split in two from the way it bulged and made a mental note to sell extra gear we'd scavenged and pass the rest to Charon. He never told me when he needed supplies, which I assumed was a contract thing… or a male pride thing. Either way I didn't want to face the consequences of overlooking his unwillingness to communicate. I was getting a hang of this Wasteland survival preparation - Moira would be proud.

But I'd concern myself with that later. A savory aroma tickled my nose and incited a pathetic growl from my stomach. After so many detours, I'd finally found food. And it smelled _damn good_.

I was sitting at a table munching on mirelurk cakes (Moira had described the mirelurk as a giant, bipedal, mutated crab with intelligence as its most noticeable characteristic, but I was beginning to consider their best trait their taste) when an old man walked in. He was muttering indignantly to himself. I passed him off as one of the many lunatics in the Wasteland - except he was wearing clothes too nice to be a regular old crazy Joe. But what caught my attention was that he'd marched angrily out of Doctor Li's lab. I continued to surreptitiously observe as the bespectacled man and his bodyguard settled at a nearby table and ordered breakfast, catching snippets of the man's complaints and finding myself with an increasing urge to throw my fork at his domed head and tell him to quit his bitching. Hearing someone talk that much about his self-importance was positively _vexing_.

Charon was rubbing off on me. Not sure if that was a good thing.

I nearly fell out of my chair when the old man caught my gaze. He pushed up his spectacles and considered me.

"You there! You were the one who was talking to Doctor Li the other day, were you not?"

"Suppose I was." I answered vaguely. He motioned for me to come over, and I did so while glancing longingly at my food.

"The good doctor has refused to meet me and I cannot seem to enlighten her assistants of the absolute _importance_ that I do – outrageous. But you, you must have some credible background if she was willing to take time off of her petty experiments. Unless you're also one of her assistants?" The man muttered once again, more to himself than for my sake, shaking his head askance. "No, you look a bit more... weathered. Are you for hire?"

I puffed up my chest and sat a bit taller. I didn't care that I wasn't sure if he'd been insulting or complimenting my appearance. I suspected I was shaping up to look like a dashing Wasteland Adventurer and was so pleased I accepted his request without knowing what he wanted. "Sure am. What's the job?" "Ah, yes. I've replaced some very sensitive 'property'. I need you to find it."

* * *

"I ran into the strangest man," I announced as I returned to our room, "who wanted me to find a robot."

"And you agreed." Charon, the know-it-all, sighed, looking up from putting together his shotgun. I think he loved that weapon like his own baby – minus the baby. "I gathered you were here to find your dad." I looked away nervously.

"I didn't say I'd start _right _away."

The ghoul scoffed. "Learning the magic of lying, aren't you?"

"He'd needed help. And he told me something interesting too." I defended. I fell onto my cot and began digging through my pack, throwing Charon random supplies as I continued. I knew he couldn't refuse the items while I spoke – as disagreeable as he was, he had this weird habit of never interrupting me, no matter _what_ I said; I'd bet I could insult his mother, his manhood, and his shotgun (maybe) and he'd take it, just because I held his contract.

I was aware that he wasn't my companion by choice, and it made me a bit wistful.

"Would you believe me if I said an android – a synthetic being – malfunctioned to such a degree that it may have tried to become human? I mean, wow, a robot _supposedly_ with its own consciousness."

"You don't think so." He muttered, grudgingly accepting the stimpacks. I shook my head.

"Nope. The android's just a glorified robot. It was made for a specific purpose; its personality, its mind, everything about it is artificial – formed by someone else's ideas. It isn't _actually_ human, its programming's just messed up." Charon jammed a box of shotgun shells forcefully into his pack. I watched, bemused, but was caught up in my tangent. "To think an android would use its AI to reason that it had its own mind and soul. It's intriguing, but silly. I can just imagine Andy refusing to follow his programming! He'd be completely useless – have to be reprogrammed or scrapped – that would've caused Stanley no end of grief."

Charon remained unresponsive, focused on assembling his shotgun."Charon?" My grin faltered. "Hey." The weapon was examined one last time before being holstered. The ghoul faced me.

"I've finished my preparations. Whenever you wish to go, I shall follow."

Somehow I got the impression that I was back at square one. Nothing was different, but everything _felt_ different. I hoped I was imagining it. "Yeah. Let's head for Jefferson Memorial."

* * *

_Fuck_.

I'd gotten attached, simple as that. She was talking about fucking robots and it'd gotten under my skin.

God. Damn. Robots.


	6. I'm Completely Qualified to Do This

**I'm Completely Qualified to Do This**

_"Well, there's no more mystery behind Catherine's health problems. The news of her pregnancy has lifted the spirits of everyone here, and given us a renewed interest in making the purifier work. We now have a future generation to provide for..."_

It was weird, listening to a dad from before my lifetime. I'd expected him to sound, I don't know, different, _younger_ - but no, his voice was exactly the same as when he'd taught me the times table, or when he'd yelled at me for breaking into the liquor storage with Amata. It was comforting, and I could only thank Doctor Li for giving me the remainders of a past dad never shared. It had been a punch in the gut, but then I'd gotten angry - _furious_ - dad never planned to tell me something as important as the fact that there was a whole world out of the vault, a place _he'd_ been a part of - when I finally found dad, I was going to make him treat me to lunch and answer every single one of my questions.

_"...The team has made plans to scale back our work once the baby is born. We're also trying to compensate for the increase in mutant attacks; no one is really talking about the implications of it..."_

It probably wasn't the most strategic of ideas, nor was it good for my health of the not-getting-eaten-by-super-mutants variety, to play the holotapes while we headed for Jefferson Memorial. I'd learned my lesson in the tunnels; it was easier to take people by surprise when the radio wasn't blaring "Happy Times". There was one occasion when we'd needed to pass through a raider outpost - when it also became clear that Amata's 10mm wasn't the most accurate of weapons - I'd aimed for his head but shot a raider in the stomach, then the throat, from fifty feet away; he'd dropped like a rock so I assumed he was dead... until we cleared out the rest, approached, and saw he was contorted in a voiceless scream, stomach acid eating him from the inside out.

Not an experience I wanted to repeat. Afterward I'd picked up a rifle and made sure, if I could help it, to always shoot them in the head.

Charon gripped the back of my collar, stopping me in mid-step. I squeaked as I lost my balance and fell against his chest. He steadied me and withdrew, motioning for me to hide behind some convenient rubble. "Super mutants." He gestured to our right. I spotted a bonfire, questioning how I hadn't noticed the large plumes of smoke overtaking the evening sky. As he'd said, super mutants were swarming inside a strange encampment, surrounded by jutting metal bars and red sacks. Beside the fire were two forms, not mutants, but humans, tied up with rope, small and helpless. My eyes widened, surprised - I hadn't known the Frankensteins would take prisoners.

"Charon, do you have any of those stealth boys we found in the museum?" My voice was as soft as the gurgling Potomac, yet beneath the calm was a ripple of anticipation. Charon frowned with dawning comprehension, not moving in the slightest.

"Kid, you don't know what you're doing."

"Nonsense." I reached over to search for the device myself. "I read the Special Ops Training Manual - I am completely qualified to do this."

"As your bodyguard, I _highly_ suggest you don't fuck around with a dozen super mutants." He narrowed his milky eyes but didn't stop me as I triumphantly held the small machine in my hands.

"I'm not abandoning these guys. I'm not leaving anyone else -" I shut my mouth abruptly and shoved my pack in his arms. "Wait here and cover me if anything goes wrong, though I doubt it. I'll be back before you can say super mutant behemoth." My confidence was brimming - I grinned and slipped the stealth boy on my free wrist. I activated the machine and found my head tingling, as if someone had doused my brain with cold water. A strange sensation, to be sure, but not as strange as seeing yourself disappear. I stood up, invisible, and strolled nonchalantly toward the camp, hearing Charon swear behind me.

I wasn't an adrenaline junkie, but it felt exhilarating to flirt with danger. I slipped past the Frankensteins with no trouble, drawing closer and closer to the bonfire, until I could see that the hanging red sacks were actually black nets, holding wet chunks of flesh. I tried not to breath deeply as the stench of blood and decay became overwhelming, stomach doing flip flops. Nearing the two prisoners, I slowed my pace, considering how to go about this.

I hadn't thought of how to get them _out_... but how hard could it be? I knelt beside a woman dressed in dirty brown clothes. She had her eyes closed, her lips drawn into a white line. "Excuse me, I'm going to untie you. Please don't move. Or speak. In fact, pretend I'm not even here." I started. The woman's eyes snapped open in fear before transforming to surprise. She nodded and watched in anxious silence as her unseen rescuer unknotted the bonds. The man next to her squirmed in impatience, until I moved on to undo his bindings.

"Follow me." I instructed and realized they couldn't follow what they couldn't see. I bit my lip. Getting out was going to take a bit more stealth than getting in.

I glanced at the super mutants, made sure they were distracted, and dropped the cloak. I placed a finger to my lips. _Quiet_.

We made good progress, ducking behind anything we came across and hoping the mutants didn't notice their missing captives. There were a few hairy moments, but it was fortunately dark and the muties were dumber than a sack of bricks; I thanked my lucky stars that I'd decided to travel by night (I doubted raiders and mercenaries were equipped with night vision). I thought we were in the clear, halfway out of the encampment with no one the wiser; I was already smiling, celebrating an early victory.

Then the man stood up and bolted.

I guess he didn't trust a girl to get him out safely, or he'd gotten impatient with freedom so close by, or maybe he was just plain stupid. I was shocked - I believed in human decency, selflessness, and here was this _idiot_ who cared more about his own skin than that of a woman and his own rescuer. In any case, the sudden movement set off a chain of events.

The woman stumbled as he pushed past her and released a startled gasp. A couple of super mutant heads turned at the noise. I stopped in my tracks.

"HUMAN. I'LL WEAR YOUR SPINE AROUND MY NECK."

_Sonofabitch_-

A bullet grazed my arm, jump-starting my instinct to _get out of the fucking way_.

No. Wait. That was Charon's voice. I leaped out of the way as an absurdly large sledgehammer crashed down where I'd just been, inches from making me into human putty, ground trembling from impact. I fumbled frantically for my rifle and tried to run backwards at the same time, but fear made me clumsy. "You won't be able to wear my spine if you break it. Idiot!" I yelled in panicked frustration, and if any super mutants hadn't noticed me before, they did now. The Frankenstein swung again, but this time there was the thundering of a shotgun and the sledgehammer flew out of its hands. I began running towards Charon as he gave cover fire, bullets whizzing past me, when I heard screaming.

I'd forgotten about the woman. I stopped again and swung around to meet the woman's terrified gaze. She was just _sitting_ there, right where she'd fallen. I was about to run right back, pull her up, _save her_, but I'd been frozen long enough to be perfect target practice - suddenly my leg and shoulder were burning. I think I screamed; I wasn't sure, because I collapsed and holy super mutant behemoth did it hurt, when an arm looped around my waist and hauled me onto broad shoulders.

The Wasteland was a place of many firsts. First time seeing the sky, first time eating squirrel... and first time getting shot.

I understood, from encountering the hazards of the wastes, that I'd be seriously injured eventually. I guess I'd just assumed it would be in a controlled environment; get shot, apply band-aid, heal, feel hunky dory.

We were still being chased and shot at as Charon lugged my limp form to cover. They were fast for ten foot tall, ungainly green giants. Persistent bunch.

"They just. Won't. Give up." I hyperventilated into his shoulder, body convulsing in white hot pain with every step. He held me tighter as we neared the Potomac.

"I suggest you hold your breath."

"Wait. You don't mean -" I knew what he meant and I didn't have to like it. I wasn't thinking straight, was crying from pain, but I didn't want to get drenched in an irradiated river.

Charon wavered. "Fuck - don't tell me to wait! Order me to jump in the damn water!" We heard the bellows of a small army of super mutants closing the distance, bullets scraping the ground. In my periphery I spotted a huge gun spinning up. I gritted my teeth and shut my eyes.

"Jump in the water!"

It's hard to brace yourself for the freezing impact of submerging into a river when you're already trying to endure painful injuries. I momentarily blacked out from the shock, coming to as we reemerged some ways from shore, gulping oxygen greedily.

I learned that day that super mutants can't swim. The massive forms remained on land, roaring with belligerent rage, taking potshots at us, yet were unwilling to pursue us. I was dragged along as we swam, dizzy and sick and relieved that the bitter cold was numbing the pain. We went quite a ways, until no super mutants could be seen, before we got out and set up camp in a rocky alcove. Although it was only a dozen miles away, I didn't want to head back to Rivet City - we'd have to wade though an group of armed and furious super mutants anyways.

I was propped against a boulder as Charon dug through our supplies, creating a puddle of water beneath me. My teeth chattered, my nose ran, and I was attempting to keep it together (and failing) as he took out a handful of needles I couldn't identify in the evening light and a small metallic object - tweezers. "Stimpaks don't get rid of what's already inside you." He explained simply, lifted one of my listless arms, and jabbed a needle into it. He inserted another, and my body loosened with relief.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" I accused as the throbbing pain dulled into numbness and he rolled up the leg of my pants, getting to work on extracting the bullet. I watched with morbid interest, having never seen so much of my own blood before.

"Employers don't tend to hold my hand and put me to bed when I'm wounded." The reply was strained, though the sarcasm was comforting. He finished with the leg and injected the stimpak's contents into it; the skin stitched together, leaving only blood and the pink of newly formed tissue. He turned to my shoulder and, after a pregnant pause, stated in perfect monotone. "I can't see the wound under your clothes." _You have to take off your clothes_. If it were anyone else I'd have refused, but this was Charon and by this point I was too tired to care about decency. With my good arm, I grappled to unzip my bloody jumpsuit and sat, from the waist up, in my undergarments. I first planned to peel off the suit only on the side with my injury, but it was actually warmer to just go without, since my clothes were sopping wet, and evening made them all the more cold. It should have been worrisome; If I didn't die of blood loss, I'd die of pneumonia. I found I just wanted to talk.

"Back in the vault, I had a best friend. Her name's Amata." I sniffled and heard Charon sigh. "I'd been asleep when dad left; if Amata hadn't woken me up I'd probably be dead by now. In a way, she saved me. But when I'd been running, just running from everyone I saw - I saw her through a window, with her dad and a guard and knew they wanted to know where I was - and - and I... I _ran_, Charon. I didn't help her." I regressed to blubbering quietly, half coherent, half desperate. The damn eyes were in my mind again, staring at me accusingly, terrified, making the world spin. "Do you think - that woman, the one that was captured... you think she made it? Did I mess up, Charon? Tell me - please." My voice faltered, trailing off into a miserable silence. He remained intently focused on my shoulder, then sighed again.

"Yeah, you royally fucked up. You can't save everyone, kid." The dull prick of the stimpak ended the discussion. I shuddered and felt heavy, smothered by the water soaking me to the bone and the weight of Charon's words. It was an utterly dismal night in the making. Then my stomach growled.

Being miserable was famishing work.

* * *

The kid was an idiot. Walking into Super Mutantville with a stealth boy and a beat-up hunting rifle was a plan only an idiot could make. And to top it all off, she expected it to end in sunshine and rainbows - again I questioned the kid's already uncertain mental stability. The whole fiasco couldn't have helped her state of mind either - it sure as hell wasn't helping mine.

But maybe it would teach her some foresight. I doubted the lesson would last long, but if there was a chance this screwup would stop her from running, poorly equipped, into a crowd of enemies, I'd even say a prayer.

She'd folded in on herself, looking depressed - fragile even, like a single touch would shatter her, and it made it all the harder to treat her injuries. I did say a prayer because she looked ready to burst into tears, and I've had more experience befriending a deathclaw than handling a crying woman. My contract instructed me how to obey and how to kill, not how to deal with an emotional employer. In fact, I was sure the beloved family who raised me had tried to stamp out all sentiment in their perfect little servant - it failed, but left me on unfamiliar footing in respect to sympathy, empathy, and _feeling_ in general.

I concluded to concentrate on making sure the kid didn't bleed to death. She was as lucky as ever - or the super mutants were even worse shots than expected - the bullets hadn't pierced anything important, hadn't impacted bone and shattered. All I had to do was take them out and inject a few stimpaks; with the Med-X running through her system, she'd barely feel a thing.

It was more concerning to have her laying half naked. I may have been a ghoul, but fuck, I was still a man and damn it if I didn't like the view. It was unbelievably fucked up, goggling an employer, but when you're trapped for a decade in the same corner of a sleazy bar, where the most you'd get were shot up ghoul women, you got desperate.

Hell, I wouldn't call it desperation - she was soft and curved - good-looking, even - who could blame a deprived male for wandering eyes? I clenched my teeth and corrected my seemingly deteriorating self-control as the kid began talking _again_. She was decidedly uneasy with silence, but for once didn't irritate me. Might as well let the kid get everything out - she needed to talk as much as I needed to think.

And then she'd dropped a god damned bomb. "Did I mess up, Charon? Tell me - please." Since when had the kid valued my opinion? When did she start looking at me like I was a fucking arbiter, like I could judge her actions and absolve her wrongs? I couldn't make sense of half my own life - couldn't even function without a master - what right did I have to say anything to her?

"Yeah, you royally fucked up. You can't save everyone, kid." Because of the contract, it was the only answer I could provide - the truth. Yet it had always been a worse crime than deceit.

The kid seemed to grow even smaller. A pathetic growl escaped her stomach. "...I'm hungry. And cold." The kid confessed, flustered. "Would you make a fire? We can dry off and cook something." She shivered. I stood and picked up her rucksack, searching for the blanket the kid carried. It was as wet as the rest of the contents, but was easy to wring to a semi-usable form. The kid said nothing, just watched curiously as I dropped it on her shoulders. Her lips twitched, and in an all too familiar fashion, lifted upwards and shaped into a perfect, tilted crescent. "Thank you for being ever the stalwart gentleman. And... if in the future, if I do something stupid, please slap me and tell me I'm doing something stupid." She cracked, smiling. I smirked and played along.

"Can do, boss."

* * *

A/N: Okay, last of the self-deprecating author's note for a while. I went back to fix some errors and realized... the story's development seems really boring. There's no pizazz, nothing really stands out in the development of the plot (or lack thereof), or the progression of a chapter. So I beg of you, criticize me, tell me what you want to see, and tell me how I might improve. It would really make the writing process more fun.

Also, leave it to me to overlook the fact that stimpak doesn't have a 'c'.


End file.
